by Steve on September 30, 2015

I revisited this today. I originally read this days after it was written by our friend Paul Uhls. The date on the post is March 21, 2012, the day Jesus came to take Brianna home. As I spent a few minutes reading through it again today it brought the same emotions that it did the first time. What was / is in my tears then and now?

Pain in the loss of my beautiful daughter, His child.

Pain in knowing that my family hurts from our loss.

Sorrow knowing that our lives will never be the same again.

Sorrow knowing that we will not get to watch Bri experience life.

Sorrow in knowing that other families are walking in our shoes.

But, through the clouded view of my tears, I remembered this.

God’s will is perfect and His grace sufficient.

He allowed me to be her Daddy for 9 beautiful years.

He has restored her to be perfect in all things.

He showed us the good in people and in our community.

He continues to guide us and comfort us every day and He is the reason we do not give up.

Thank you Paul for your tribute. We are all still lovingBri!

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Loving Bri…. What’s in a tear?

I shed a few tears today. Not many – I am ashamed to admit, not quite understanding why – but a few nonetheless. I heard the news as I was just about the watch the first pitch of my own son’s first baseball game of the Spring. And spent some private thoughts trying to understand just what that tear meant.

What’s in a tear? In my wife’s was genuine sorrow, twinged with a speck of guilt that perhaps she’d missed an opportunity to visit one last time and tell the Princess that she loved her. That guilt, however small and unwarranted, will fade. My wife had a sister-like connection with her, and she will soon understand that the Princess knew full well she was loved. Her tears will eventually transform into joy, with praise in knowing that she was healed after all.

But what’s in my tear? I think I have some ideas…

There’s grief in the loss of someone so precious.

There’s hurt in my heart in seeing my wife’s sorrow.

There’s sadness in seeing an entire community feel that their idea of a miracle didn’t happen.

There’s regret that I didn’t do more. And that I was stupid enough to think that I “couldn’t” do more.

There’s sorrow for her family, realizing — but, of course, never comprehending — the tremendous loss they must feel.

There’s comfort in knowing that the Princess is now healed. No more pain, and made whole again. The little girl who was once so full of life is now full again. Running and jumping and dancing. Maybe she’ll even pet my dog Gizmo if she can catch him.

There’s satisfaction in knowing she loved Jesus, because her Mommy and Daddy took the time to take her to church and teach her about God. Truly the greatest gift they could have ever given her.

There’s joy in knowing that there will be people in Heaven because of the Princess and the powerful story she had to tell. People who may not have been there otherwise.

There’s assuredness in knowing that God did not do this to her. That this terrible, horrible, evil disease came from Satan, whose only worthless trait is to prowl around in the night like a lion seeking someone to devour. A spirit so vile that the best he can do is prey on innocent little girls and steal their little lives in his sick hope that it will turn people away from God. Little did he know that it did just the opposite.

There’s wonder in how God can turn something so terrible in our world into something so glorious in His. That He could somehow unite an entire community in the sole purpose of praying for a little girl, with the sole outcome being that God is praised, and people who didn’t know Jesus will get to join the Princess in Heaven.

There’s elation in knowing that God is greater than anything we can ever face. That He can be glorified even in the worst of circumstances. And that there are people willing to praise Him even in their greatest sorrows.

There’s hope that somehow, someway, my life can have a fraction of the impact on others that this little girl’s did — in a fraction of the time, no less. That my 42 years plus can somehow touch people the way her 9 plus did.

There’s the color pink, everywhere.

There’s praise to God for blessing me with family — a wife and two glorious sons — who I want to hold a little closer tonight and not forget to thank God for.

There’s thankfulness that I had the chance – if only briefly – to know the Princess. To have held her in both her good health, and her sickness. And that even though she liked to hide under the table from me at times, she seemed to genuinely like to see me. And to be held by me. And that I had the chance to tell her I loved her, at her 9th birthday party. And that I got to see her smile when the clown came in.

There’s gratefulness that I am friends with her parents, and that I can count them among my brothers and sisters in Christ. That her Dad is a man of God who is worthy of our respect, and her Mom is a woman in whom Jesus would be proud.

There’s probably more, but I’m tired, and hurting, and just hoping that God will give me the right word to say at the right time.

That’s what’s in my tear. Later there may be more tears. Right now, there’s just a few.

(You can find the original posting and more of Paul’s writings at his blog, Say What?)




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